


These Late Night Conversations

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully likes to talk to Mulder - on the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Late Night Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Early S6  
> A/N: For my phonesex Kink Bingo square. Bingo!  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this and no infringement is intended.

In the morning they'll pretend it never happened.

For now she picks up the phone. She dials his number: one off from hers. Just like usual. Sometimes they're a few rooms away from each other and oddly enough that makes it better, when she's not straining to hear any hint of moaning, when she's not pressing her hand to the wall.

It's best when it's just the friction of their two voices, the sync and jar of the vibrations as they pass through the wires. She was a physicist once. She remembers the simple beauty of sound. The purity of it, in an uncertain world. The universe is singing. It sings through her bones when Mulder talks, the subrosa pitch to his voice, as if he's conferring dark secrets when he asks her where they should go for dinner, the local knockoff of Dairy Queen or the local knockoff of Taco Bell.

Their conversation is perfectly decorous. Any government ears should be bored to tears. They only discuss the case, the dull minutia of paperwork as Mulder tells her how much gas they used and she notes it down, all the little divisions of labor they've perfected because she _will_ turn in the paperwork and besides, they need something to talk about.

They need something to talk about because she needs the curly cord of the worn, no doubt disgusting hotel phone wrapped around her finger to keep herself from touching herself too soon. She needs the sandpaper rasp of his voice wearing away the day's stresses. The timbre of his voice caresses her; his cadence rocks her. Their words jostle for space the way their bodies can't during the day, strict professionalism and no closer than a hair's breadth. Their words have no compunctions, not over the phone. They slide together, over and around each other, dovetailing, separating, stretching into an eternity of slow, shared breaths.

She talks about disintegration of adipose tissue, the steady progression of large piles of manure toward what Mulder categorizes as spontaneous combustion but which is in fact anything but unexpected, the unique nomenclature of xenobiology. He describes accounts by alien abductees of the purest white light or lectures, professorial, on the distinct impressions left by the four (not two) fangs of el chupacabre, and how they should check the next poor exsanguinated bovine carefully for any sign of mythical predation. She mumbles something noncommital. Every syllable sends sparks to her hypothalamus and pituitary, oxytocin flooding her body.

Seduction by telephonic phoneme, she thinks. He rambles on as if he's a late night radio talk show host, unraveling the mysteries of the universe, one of the lonely people talking to no one, talking to everyone, an out-of-regulation antenna beaming every word to the stars.

It's good that he doesn't have this effect on her in person, or she'd have to walk with her thighs pressed tight together. Mulder, face-to-face annoyance and confidant with his lips pursed in that adolescent pout, becomes someone else on the phone and so does she. He's a temptation; she's undone. Finally she can't bear the sweet low rumble of his voice through her body anymore. She touches herself, fingers still bound up in the phone's cord, and comes almost immediately. Sometimes they wait until they're off the phone, but she likes it better when they don't. She tries to be silent. The stifled vibrations of her cries echo back through her body until she shakes from head to toe.

She breathes, steadying herself, and jots down a few notes about the day - mileage on the rental car, hotel expenditure, total number of farmers innocent of constructing bombs out of manure - while Mulder says something unbearably sexy about the use of bovine growth hormone and the resulting acceleration in both manure-related explosions and victimization of cows by unknown forces. She leans into the rhythm of the words.

"Good night, Mulder," she says finally.

"See you in the morning, Scully," he promises.

She sighs and hangs up.


End file.
